


seven minutes in heaven (and then some)

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Sherlock, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Job, House Party, John Watson Plays Rugby, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molstrade, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Resolved Sexual Tension, Seven Minutes In Heaven Game, Sherlock's First Time, Shy Sherlock, Smut, Soft Boys, Sweet John Watson, Unilock, Unsafeish Sex, Virgin Sherlock, everyone is of age and consenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25539265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock's never kissed anyone before, never even held hands with someone who wasn't his parent. When Greg drags him to a house party against his will, and Sherlock discovers his crush is there as well, he's not sure what to do with himself.Thanks to an awkward conversation, a surprise game of Seven Minutes in Heaven, and an unexpected confession, Sherlock gets lucky.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 80
Kudos: 465





	seven minutes in heaven (and then some)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a prompt I found on Google: 
> 
> _My friend dragged me to a party and then abandoned me, but you came up to me and we started talking. Somehow, I started talking about how I didn’t want to be here while you start smirking when my friend comes back and introduces you to me as the host of the party, and I blush really hard because I’ve been ranting about how boring it was for 10 minutes_
> 
> Also, it was meant to be a little ficlet, but of course I have no self-control, so of course it's 10,000+ words long instead 🙄

“I can’t believe I'm letting you drag me to this party,” Sherlock muttered, shoving tangled curls out of his face.

Greg shot him an indulgent grin. “Oh, you'll be fine,” he chastised. He straightened the collar of his button-up and smoothed the wrinkles out with the flats of his hands. “Just have some drinks, talk to some blokes, make small talk, all that.”

His brows drew down, and Sherlock scowled as he buttoned his cuffs. “You know I’m no good at that.”

“Which part?”

The scowl deepened. “All of it,” Sherlock snapped. “You owe me.”

Greg chuckled. “Actually, _you_ owe _me_ , remember?” Sherlock’s sullen pout indicated that he did, and Greg smirked. “That’s right. And Molly is going to be at this party — you said you’d introduce me.”

Arms straight at his sides, Sherlock looked like a man about to face the firing squad. “Ah, so I did.” Sighing, he rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Fine. Let’s go. I want to get this over with.”

Greg slapped him on the back, making him stumble forward a step. The gesture earned him a glare. “That’s the spirit,” Greg exclaimed, ignoring the death stare.

* * *

Sherlock’s dour expression remained as they climbed the stairs toward the sound of thumping music. “I hate this,” he announced, voice thick with annoyance, “and I hate you for making me come.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to be the life of the party,” Greg said sarcastically. He steered Sherlock toward a door, leaning forward to rap his knuckles against the peeling wood. Sherlock curled his lip at the old, rundown building.

The door swung open to reveal Sally Donovan, who sneered at the sight of Sherlock. “Oh, Greg,” she said in a strained voice, “you brought the freak.”

“A pleasure, as always, Sally,” Sherlock replied dryly, slipping past her through the doorway. “I hope you were able to find someone better than Anderson to accompany you tonight?” Catching her furious glare, he smirked. “No? Pity.” He sidled deeper into the flat, leaving Greg to smooth things over as he looked around.

The place was unfamiliar, the entryway shifting into a hall that ended in a small, somewhat cramped sitting room. People filled the space, standing or sitting on old furniture that had seen better days. The flat clearly belonged to a fellow university student. The cheap alcohol set on the kitchen counter, which faced into the living room, confirmed Sherlock’s hypothesis.

He prodded at a stack of red plastic cups before a voice chirped in his ear, “Sherlock! You came!”

Wincing, Sherlock pasted a strained smile on his face and turned to greet the speaker. “Hello, Molly.” He grudgingly accepted her enthusiastic hug, grimacing at the strong smell of perfume that enfolded him. “I was dragged here by a friend.”

“Lovely.” Her brown eyes lit up. “It's fantastic that you're here.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, forcing his smile to stay in place. “Yes, isn’t it just?” Catching sight of Greg, he waved him over. “Greg, this is Molly.” He shoved Greg forward. “Molly, meet Greg. Have fun, laters!” Offering a sardonic finger wiggle, Sherlock ignored Greg’s sour expression and made his escape.

Snagging a random beer off the counter, he retreated further into the sitting room until he found somewhere to perch. The loveseat was old leather, and he nearly disappeared into the seat when he dropped onto it. Extracting himself with a grimace, Sherlock settled on the armrest and cracked the tab on the can. In the process of lifting the drink to his lips, eyes scanning the room, he watched the crowd shift and caught sight of him.

“Oh.” The edge of the can struck Sherlock’s teeth, and he winced. Wiping at the mark, he stared at the man revealed by the parting crowd. "Oh, no."

His hair was short and dark blonde, shot through with lighter gold. Sherlock couldn’t make out his eyes from his perch, but he knew they would be blue. Startlingly so, like the depthless echo of the sea during a storm. The man wore a light jumper with thick black stripes and blue jeans, and Sherlock’s mouth watered when he saw how the jumper hugged his broad shoulders and clung to the curve of his tapered waist.

The beer dripped condensation down his fingers, ignored as the man turned and caught his eye.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

_John Watson._

To his shock, John smiled, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Oh, god. Was John smiling at _him?_ At _Sherlock?_ Was John Watson — rugby captain, top of the class, and the object of Sherlock’s unrelenting affection for the past three years — smiling at _him?_ Part of Sherlock’s mind dismissed the very idea, while a more significant, hopeful part ached for it to be so.

But doubt rose in the wake of his hope. They'd shared a total of 135 words over three years — Sherlock knew that precisely, he'd counted. And each of those had centred on school-related subjects. So, no, John couldn't be smiling at Sherlock. He must be looking at someone else. Maybe a date, or a prospective one. Sherlock was sure of it.

Until John made his way toward the couch. Perched on the arm, Sherlock stiffened in surprise. His hand clenched, crinkling the thin metal of the can in his grip.

“Hey.” John stopped before him. With Sherlock seated, their faces were nearly level. “You’re Sherlock, right?”

Sherlock nodded and found he had to swallow before he could answer. “Yes.” He blinked and narrowed his eyes. “And you’re John.”

John’s smile widened a little. “Yeah, that’s right.” His brow furrowed, his head tipping to the side. “I think we have some classes together. I’m pretty sure I sit in front of you in Organic Biology.”

Dazed, Sherlock nodded. “Oh,” he said weakly, trying to sound surprised and probably failing, “do you?” He hoped his expression didn’t give away how often he stared at the back of John’s head. At the frequency with which he noticed the play of sunlight on the hair at the nape of John's neck, and how he found John’s shoulders far more interesting than the lectures.

“Yup.” John seemed oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was having a small heart attack. “I borrowed a biro from you last week.”

“Oh, yes, so you did,” Sherlock said, wonderingly. That had been the highlight of his week. Though, as John smiled at him again, the current moment was quickly surpassing it.

To Sherlock’s shock, John sank onto the sofa cushion next to him. He sat close enough that his foot brushed Sherlock’s. The couch attempted to engulf him, but John navigated the assault with ease, settling so the faded leather couldn’t suck him down. He turned to Sherlock. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these parties before.”

Sherlock twitched. _Play it cool, Holmes._ He plastered a desperate, shaky smile onto his face. “Ah, well. I’m, er, not much of one for parties.” Pausing, he frowned and added, “Or… people.”

“And yet,” John said, shifting an eyebrow upward, “here you are.”

Sherlock’s smile stretched into something that felt borderline painful. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat and pointed across the room, where Greg was leaning against the kitchen counter with Molly. They were standing close together with their heads bent in conversation. “Greg made me come.”

“Made you?” John tilted his head to the side. “You really didn’t want to come?”

His mouth felt dry again, and Sherlock sipped at his beer. He pulled a face and tried to smooth it into something casual, struggling to appear aloof.

_Play it cool._

“Not really. I’d have preferred to stay home. Work on some experiments.” He waved a nervous hand toward the crowded room. “These things are always so... _tedious_. Honestly, I can’t think of anything more boring than sitting around, faking smiles at a bunch of strangers.” Warming to the topic, Sherlock crossed one leg over the other. He leaned back into the sofa, praying it wouldn't try to devour him again. Thankfully, it didn't, and Sherlock blew out a loud sigh. “I don’t know why anyone would throw a party in the first place. It’s baffling.” He closed his mouth with a click of teeth when he realized that John was looking at him with an odd expression.

Before Sherlock could determine what it meant, Greg approached the couch with Molly in tow.

“John!” he said, gripping John’s arm with a smile. “Thanks for the invite, mate. It's a great party!” Standing close at his side, Molly nodded her enthusiastic agreement, but Sherlock’s vision narrowed, fading into a tunnel. His face burned, colour rushing into his cheeks.

This was _John's_ party. Oh, god.

John was replying to the kind words. His voice sounded muffled in Sherlock's ears as if spoken from a great distance.

“Thanks! I'm glad you both could make it.” John turned his brilliant smile onto Sherlock, who was trying not to hyperventilate. “Sherlock was just telling me how he feels about parties.”

Greg groaned. “Of course he was,” he muttered, shooting Sherlock a sharp look. Looping an arm around Sherlock's neck, he tugged a little rougher than necessary and said, “He’s, uh, good at putting his foot in it, our Sherlock.”

Sherlock wanted to fall through the floor. Lestrade's arm fell away, and he ground his teeth. Eyes on his lap, Sherlock prayed for invisibility. He nearly jumped out of his skin when John’s hand landed on the small of his back. Shocked by the touch, Sherlock's head whipped toward him.

John smiled. The gesture short-circuited Sherlock's brain, and he blinked in bewilderment.

“That’s alright." John's eyes were warm, his expression kind. The sight took Sherlock’s breath away. “Not everyone is into the party thing. In fact,” John’s voice softened, making Sherlock shiver, “I think it’s kind of refreshing, hearing someone speak their mind like that.”

Sherlock choked. He tried to hide it by taking a large drink of his beer and swallowed with difficulty, avoiding John’s eyes. His hand still rested on Sherlock’s back, a hot point of contact, even through Sherlock's shirt. When it disappeared, John pulling his arm back, Sherlock felt the absence like a wound.

“Well,” John said, rising to his feet with a cheeky grin, “I’d better make my rounds. Say hi and all that. You know, since I’m the boring host.” He tipped Sherlock a wink before walking away, leaving Sherlock to gawk after him.

Greg nudged him with his elbow. “Shut your mouth before you start drooling.”

Sherlock shot him a glare and closed his mouth with a click of teeth.

* * *

Already unbalanced by John's friendliness, the night continued to surprise Sherlock.

He hovered near the kitchen with Molly and Greg, the latter of which kept glancing at him with annoyance as Greg whispered something into Molly’s ear. She giggled and shot Sherlock a pointed look as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the safety of their presence. He lingered near them, reliant on their familiarity as a shield from the rest of the party.

Until John reappeared with a bowl of crisps in his hands, and Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight of him. He looked around, searching for exit routes, and found himself cornered. Sucking in a breath, he offered an apologetic smile as John came up to stand next to him.

“Do snacks make me less boring?” he teased, setting the bowl on the counter. Sherlock groaned and buried his face in his hands. He heard John chuckle and looked up just as he touched Sherlock’s shoulder lightly with his fingers. The contact was like a brand. “I’m just kidding," John assured him, his palm settling on Sherlock's scapula. "It’s fine. Really.”

Sherlock ducked his head, desperately searching for a response. "I, uh..." Wetting his lips, he looked up again and saw that Greg and Molly had disappeared, leaving him alone with John.

Who was smiling up at him. Who was still touching his arm.

Sherlock blinked quickly and glanced away with a nervous smile on his lips. “I didn’t mean any offense,” he said, wincing at his earlier statements. “Sometimes I…” his brow creased as he searched for the words. “Sometimes I just… say things…” Sherlock's voice trailed off.

John smiled sympathetically. “It’s fine,” he repeated. His thumb moved over Sherlock's shoulder, rubbing along the fabric of his shirt. “Really, you’re fine.”

Sherlock stared. John sounded sincere, and his expression was kind. The brush of his thumb was soothing, and, slowly, Sherlock nodded.

Still smiling, John dropped his hand back to his side. “Another drink?” He pointed at Sherlock’s empty beer when Sherlock just blinked.

“Ah...” Sherlock hesitated. He glanced at the can in his hand with a grimace, uncertain if he could stomach another drink of what tasted like wet bread. “Maybe not.”

John’s lips quirked. “Not a beer guy, huh?”

Shrugging, Sherlock set the empty can carefully on the kitchen counter. The metal rim clicked against the hard surface. “Guess not.”

“Well, let me see if I have something you might like better.” John turned away and scanned the bottles on the counter, picking up and studying the labels of the hard alcohol. He frowned and selected a small bottle with rounded edges. It contained a honey-amber-coloured liquid that Sherlock eyed with uncertainty. John poured a splash into a clean shot glass and handed it over. “Try it first. See what you think.”

Sherlock squinted at the drink before taking the tall, thin glass delicately between his index finger and thumb. He inhaled, smelled spice and cinnamon and alcohol before he tipped the bit of spirit past his lips. Fire splashed over his tongue, warming his mouth. It made his throat tingle, and Sherlock blinked. He swallowed and frowned, his mouth still burning. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unexpected, and he stared at the bottle. “What is that?”

“Fireball.” John chuckled at Sherlock’s expression. “Not a fan?”

“No, it’s…” Sherlock tapped a finger against the side of the shot glass before setting it next to the beer can. “It’s interesting.”

One of John’s brows rose. “Interesting good or interesting bad?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t hate it.”

“Oh, good.” John grinned. “I’m glad you don’t hate _something.”_ His tone was light and teasing, but Sherlock still winced. John immediately looked chagrined, and he reached out, fingertips brushing the back of Sherlock’s hand. The contact sent sparks up Sherlock’s arm, hotter and even more surprising than the spicy taste lingering on his tongue.

He swallowed and forced himself to meet John’s blue eyes. “Sorry.”

John shook his head. “No, I’m the one who is sorry. I was just teasing again.” He smiled a slow smile, and there was a trace of uncertainty in his expression. “I really should stop, but you’re just so easy to tease.”

Sherlock felt his face flush, an echo of the inferno still rippling out from where John had touched his hand. Coughing, he offered a tentative smile in return. John’s eyes darted to his lips before they rose and lingered on Sherlock’s, their gazes locked.

His breath caught in his throat, and Sherlock froze. Finding himself drawn in by John's dark eyes, he drifted forward, barely an inch. John's eyelids fluttered, and he shifted closer, eyes dropping to Sherlock's mouth again.

A hand appeared between them, shattering the moment. Sherlock jumped and looked up at a girl with short, purple-dyed hair. She was leaning over the counter toward them with a mischievous grin.

“Pick one!” she commanded, nodding at her hand. “And don’t look until I tell you to.”

Sherlock's gazed dropped, and he saw there were several straws clutched in her closed fist. Flustered and confused by the command, he took one and wrapped his hand around it, making sure not to look. John did the same, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

The girl blew kisses at both of them before turning and walking away, leaving Sherlock with more questions than before. He glanced at John, who shrugged. There was a glint in his eyes that Sherlock didn’t quite understand, and he turned to watch the girl move around the sitting room. She did a slow rotation, offering straws to everyone. Over by the loveseat, Greg and Molly exchanged excited, nervous looks.

Sherlock’s chest felt tight. Sighing out a slow, unsteady breath, he leaned his hip against the counter and waited as the girl holding the straws, now with only one left in her hand, moved to the middle of the sitting room.

“Okay, has everyone got their straws?” She glanced around to make sure everyone nodded and grinned. “Brilliant. Okay, you can look at them now. If your straw has a red sticker on it, hold it up.”

Sherlock slowly uncurled his fingers to reveal the straw resting in his palm. A little sticker, circular and deep red, stared back at him like Sauron’s eye. Lord of the Rings was one of the few books he hadn't deleted, and the comparison was striking. He swallowed, and his hand rose into the air, fingers shaking a little around the plastic, Sherlock still utterly bewildered.

“We have our first sticker!” the straw girl exclaimed, pointing at Sherlock. Every eye in the room turned toward him, and Sherlock tried not to give in to his urge to flee. He pasted a nervous, shaky smile on his face, wondering when someone would explain the game. But the girl just gave him a wink and said, “Okay, now, who has the blue sticker?”

To Sherlock’s shock and rising panic, John jolted at his side. His arm slowly lifted until they were both standing in the kitchen with their hands in the air.

The straw girl’s smile turned predatory, and Sherlock's disquiet grew.

“Ah, the host!” The girl giggled, shaking her head with a sigh. “Lucky you, John, being chosen first for Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

Sherlock frowned and shot John a look. John glanced at him with an odd expression, the nervous gleam in his eyes only deepening Sherlock’s confusion. _Seven minutes in what?_ Sherlock thought frantically. _Did she say ‘heaven?’_ He opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but then everyone was surging forward. They pulled him out of the kitchen, and Sherlock was propelled into the sitting room by eager hands with John dragged along behind.

“I—what are you—” Sherlock couldn’t seem to manage a full sentence. Stumbling over his words, he was buoyed helplessly along through the sitting room, toward the hallway and an open door. Hands hit his back, sending him stumbling through the doorway. He caught himself on the wall and looked around at a dark bedroom.

Moon and starlight slanted in through the open curtains, looking silver next to the yellow glow of streetlights. John knocked into his back as someone shoved him inside, and Sherlock fought to keep his balance, hands scrabbling at the wall as he heard the door close. With John crowded up against him, his breathing sounded shockingly loud in the dark space.

Confused, Sherlock stared around the room. His eyes adjusted, and he looked at the medical texts on the desk, the pale blue bedspread, the rugby trophies on the shelf over the desk.

This was John’s room. He was in _John’s room._

Sherlock’s heart thundered at the realization. He made a weird, strangled sound, his throat suddenly tight. John stepped back at once, giving him space, the warmth of his body disappearing with the distance. Sherlock turned and found John watching him closely, his face tight with apprehension.

“What are we doing in here?” Sherlock asked, trying to breathe long and slow as his heart continued to race. “What was that thing with the straws?” Opening his hand, he exposed the plastic cylinder, still resting in his palm. “I don’t understand.”

Realization dawned slowly on John's face, and he winced. “You’ve never played Seven Minutes in Heaven, have you?”

Sherlock shook his head, frustrated by his lack of understanding. Straws, stickers, being shoved into your unrequited crush's dark bedroom at a party? None of it made any sense. “I have no idea what that is. Is it some kind of code?”

One eye closing in a grimace, John cleared his throat. "Uh, no. Well, not exactly." He sounded nervous, pulling in a loud breath before gesturing to the bed. “Why don’t... maybe you should sit down.”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the desk, and the chair pushed beneath. John stood between him and it, so Sherlock nodded and sank onto the edge of the mattress. He sat stiffly, hands folded together in his lap.

John fidgeted with his own straw for a moment, eyes fastened on it before tossing it onto the desk and blowing air loudly out through his mouth. Raising his head, he took a step closer, stopping a few feet from Sherlock’s bent knees to study Sherlock’s face. The regard went on far longer than Sherlock could stand, and he began to fidget until John finally asked, “You really don’t know?”

Sherlock shook his head. "I really don't."

John sighed. “Okay, well, it’s a party game,” he began and hesitated. Sherlock squinted up at him, his fingers lacing together into a knot.

“What kind of party game?”

John offered a nervous smile, his eyes darting away. “It’s ah. Well,” lifting a hand, he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable, “it’s a kissing game.” At Sherlock’s alarmed expression, he rushed on, “Two people are picked and sent into a closet, or bathroom, or bedroom, whatever. They're supposed to kiss for, well, seven minutes. Hence the name.” He breathed out a weak laugh. “There’s nothing that says it _has_ to be a kiss — sometimes people just talk. I mean, you can’t force anyone to do anything they don’t want to do.” John’s eyelashes fluttered in a series of quick blinks, his expression growing fervent. “We don’t have to do anything, Sherlock. This isn’t... it’s not mandatory. I’m not going to touch you.” He raised his hands, palms out, to underline the statement.

Frowning down at his lap, Sherlock pursed his lips. “Why not?” he asked, his voice soft. He risked a glance at John, struck by the startled look on his face.

John’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips before disappearing again. “Are you... do you _want_ to?” There was an edge to his voice. "Kiss me, I mean?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the floor. “I… don’t know,” he admitted, his hands clenching tighter together. It was a lie. He very much _did_ want to kiss John, but Sherlock wasn’t about to admit that with John standing there, staring at him with obvious tension in his face.

Besides, Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. He wasn’t even sure how to start.

Neither of them spoke, and the seconds ticked past in silence. Sherlock listened to their breathing, his shallow and unsteady, John’s loud and a little too fast.

The quiet broke when John took a step forward. Sherlock’s head shot up, eyes widening, and John paused. He held up a hand again, his gaze fixed on Sherlock’s face. “We don’t have to do anything, Sherlock.” His voice was gentle, his smile small but kind. _“Really._ There’s no pressure.”

Sherlock watched the moonlight turn the gold in John’s hair to silver with his heart hammering in his chest. His breath caught, and he wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through the strands, wondered if they were as soft as they looked. If the gold felt different from the blonde and the brown. Gripping his thighs to keep his hands still, Sherlock pulled in a long, loud inhale.

“I want to,” he said finally, his voice no more than a whisper. The admission was like plunging into ice water. His heart thundered, the air freezing in his lungs.

The moment stretched out, went taut, and shattered when John smiled, his expression shifting from tension into relief.

“Good, he breathed raggedly, “because so do I.”

His words released the band of tension constricting Sherlock’s breathing, and his next inhale spilled a surge of warmth through his body. A fire flickered within him, down deep in his stomach, sending heat sparking through his body. It spread, consumed him, and his lips parted around a shaky sigh as blood rushed into his face.

John took another step closer, then another, slowly closing the distance between them as his hands rose. His fingers brushed Sherlock’s knees, then his thighs, nudging them aside to make room for John between his bent legs.

Blinking, startled by the sudden proximity, Sherlock stared up at him. Their faces were nearly level again, and John’s eyes looked black in the gloom.

“Are you sure?” John touched two fingers to Sherlock’s jaw, tracing upward until he cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his palm. Struck speechless by the gentle contact, Sherlock swallowed and nodded. His hands drifted out of his lap, hovered, and dropped to the mattress on either side of his body.

The coverlet beneath him was soft against his fingers.

John’s other hand rose to his face, then higher, slipping into Sherlock’s hair. His fingers tangled in curls, nails scraping lightly over Sherlock’s scalp. The sensation made Sherlock shiver, his eyes fluttering half-shut. His heart was racing, thundering fit to burst, the rush of blood through his veins making him feel light-headed. His breath stuttered out and caught in his throat. Before he could release it, John tilted Sherlock’s face upward, ducking to bring their mouths together.

The contact was light at first, almost hesitant, John’s lips lightly brushing his and pressing. The kiss lasted all of four seconds, and Sherlock counted them out in his head before John leaned back.

Sherlock opened his eyes, unaware he'd even closed them. With their faces inches apart, he saw John looking at him, his eyes darker than before.

“Alright?” John asked in a whisper. His hand was still in Sherlock's hair, finger stroking slowly through soft curls.

Sherlock managed a silent nod, feeling breathless from the lingering sensation of heat on his lips. John's exhales warmed his face, his breath smelling like alcohol and toothpaste and something that could only be unique to him. Sherlock nodded again, clearing his throat until he found his voice.

“Yes,” he said in a hoarse croak, “I’m fine.” He fidgeted with a crease in the blanket beneath him, trying to gather his thoughts. It was a struggle, and everything seemed to scatter the second he reached for it. Finally, he managed to whisper, “You... can do it again. If you like.”

John’s lips tilted upward in a half-smile. “Yeah?” he breathed. He sounded nervous, close to awed, making Sherlock gasp out a shuddering sigh.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” John tilted forward, and their lips met again, John's fingers gripping Sherlock's hair as he kissed him slow and gentle. Sherlock could feel John’s smile against his mouth, the sensation strange but glorious. John scratched his nails lightly at the base of Sherlock’s skull and dropped a hand to his lap. “Is this okay?” he asked against Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock's eager nod broke the kiss, made their noses bump. “Yes,” he whispered, still nodding.

"Sherlock..." John’s hand gripped his thigh, squeezing with gentle pressure. Sherlock gasped, their mouths slipping together again as John’s tongue flicked out to trace over his bottom lip. Sherlock sighed, the exhale parting his lips when John’s tongue nudged at the seam, slipping inside.

Sherlock jolted. The contact was hot and wet, tongues sliding together, sending static shocks through his body. It felt like his head was spinning, and he tentatively pushed his tongue against John's, curious and exploring, his body shaking at the ragged sound John made in response.

His hands lifted, hovering uncertainly. Sherlock had no idea what he wanted to do with them, only knowing that he wanted. John’s lips curved against his, another smile. He tilted his head, sweeping his tongue along the inside of Sherlock's upper lip and took Sherlock’s hands. He placed them on his waist and, slowly, Sherlock curled his fingers into the soft fabric of John’s jumper, feeling the warm, muscled body beneath. John sighed and tipped his head back, his nose drifting along Sherlock’s cheek, up to the curve of his ear.

“Have you done this before?” His teeth brushed Sherlock’s earlobe, teasing and tactful. “Any of this?”

Sherlock swallowed a groan and shook his head, biting his bottom lip in trepidation. Would his inexperience make John stop? Was John hoping he knew what he was doing? If Sherlock could have pretended, he would have, but he had little confidence in his success rate. He'd never so much as held hands with another person, never mind kissed.

He shook his head again, slower this time, making John lean back. With his hands settled on Sherlock’s knees, he studied Sherlock’s face.

“We can stop,” John said, sounding resolute despite the flushed patches of colour in his cheeks. Looking at him, Sherlock shivered at the dark, hungry look in his eyes, the slight swelling of his lips. Slowly, he sighed out a wavering breath and shook his head once more.

“I don’t want to stop.” Sherlock's voice emerged as a croak, and he coughed to clear it before repeating, “I don’t want to stop.”

John searched his face before reaching out to brush a thumb over Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and Sherlock blinked in shock.

“What?”

A small smile crept over John’s face, his eyes wide and wondering. “You’re just... fuck, you’re _gorgeous,_ Sherlock. Don’t you know that?”

Heart stuttering in his chest, breath caught in his lungs, Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed in confusion. “What?” he managed, repeating himself in a breathless wheeze.

John’s eyes widened further, astonishment flashing over his expression. “Oh my god, you _don’t_ know, do you?” He laughed. It was a soft, startled sound. Gripping Sherlock by the shoulders, John shook his head and looked hard into his face. “How can you _not know?”_

Dazed, Sherlock frowned. “I... me? You think I’m...? But you’re…” He shook his head, at a loss. One of John’s hands stroked slowly down to his arm, and he offered a rueful smile.

“What? Short? Plain? Boring?” His smile turned self-deprecating. “I know I’m not much to look at, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean I can't see that you're gorgeous. I'm not blind.”

Gaping at him, Sherlock blinked rapidly. “I... no, you...” He shook his head, struggling for the words. “But you’re...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, just an ordinary bloke—” John began, but Sherlock cut him off, tightening his grip on John’s waist in his intensity.

“I think you’re stunning,” he breathed with wide, earnest eyes. John stared at him, falling silent. His hand twitched on Sherlock’s arm, and surprise flickered over his face. Sherlock swallowed and went on, the words rushing out clumsily, “You’re perfect, John, you have no idea how long I’ve—”

The rest of his sentence disappeared against John's mouth. The kiss stole Sherlock's words, John licking past his lips with intent and greedy flicks of his tongue. He took Sherlock’s face between his hands again, fingers shaking as they tangled in his curls and pulled him closer. Sherlock tilted with him, letting himself be drawn into John’s orbit and giving himself up to the moment, his eyes sliding shut.

John sucked lightly on his tongue, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide before fluttering closed again, his wonder shifting into pleasure. He tasted John, spicy fireball and something sweet. As John cupped the back of Sherlock’s head, his other hand stroked lightly along the inseam of his trousers, coaxing a low, needy moan from Sherlock’s throat. It escaped his lips in a gasp and was swallowed down by John’s hungry mouth before Sherlock could bite it back. He felt his cheeks flame, his skin growing hot and tight, first in his face, then lower. The warmth slipped down his chest in a molten wave, trickled down his stomach and pooled deeper, between his legs.

John’s fingers, brushing higher, traced the crease of fabric between his thighs and made Sherlock shiver. The shudder drew a groan out of John, and he sucked Sherlock’s lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth carefully over the sensitive skin before leaning away. Cupping Sherlock's face in his palm, he tilted his chin up and searched his face.

“You still okay?”

Breathless, still quivering from the heat coiling through his body, Sherlock nodded. He ran his hands up and down John’s sides, marvelling at the strength he felt beneath his palms, even through the soft material of John's jumper. When John bent to kiss him again, he pressed forward into Sherlock, encouraging him to shift back. Bracing his hands on the mattress, Sherlock let John nudge him backward, Sherlock pushing himself up higher on the bed. The kiss broke, and his head landed on the pillow as John crawled over him, settling with his legs bent on either side of Sherlock’s hips. He slid a knee between Sherlock’s, watching his face closely.

Without speaking, his brain empty of words, Sherlock reached for him. He pulled John’s mouth to his, sighing as John relaxed and let his body sink, coming down to lie on top of him.

John’s lips moved from Sherlock's mouth to his chin, drifted along his jaw as one hand slid beneath Sherlock’s shirt. Breathing out a shaky breath, Sherlock nodded at John’s silent glance and gasped when John's fingertips brushed over his stomach. They lingered there, tracing the dip of Sherlock's navel, sending goosebumps racing over his skin before rising higher. John’s thumb first circled, then stroked over one of Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock let out a soft cry, his back arching upward. The contact was searing, addictive.

Sherlock wanted more. He needed to feel John everywhere, his hands, his body, all of him against every inch of his blazing skin.

When John paused at his reaction, Sherlock grabbed for him. He was enthusiastic and greedy, seizing fistfuls of John's jumper, using his hold to pull John down harder on top of him.

“Yes, please,” he gasped against John’s lips, "do it again." He sighed out a ragged whine when John obliged, thumb flicking over Sherlock's nipple, making the flesh harden at his touch. “Yes, again.” John repeated the motion before moving to the other, coaxing the skin into a rigid little bead with his touch, making Sherlock writhe at the shocking pleasure of it. “Don’t stop," he begged, voice turned hoarse by his growing arousal. "Touch me, John, _ah!"_ His hips lifted in an instinctive rut, curls clinging to the sweat rising on his brow. "Please, John, John, _touch me.”_ Sherlock was near ranting and couldn't find it in himself to care. It felt so good, John touching him, stroking his nipples, teasing the flesh between thumb and finger, and Sherlock ached for it, burned for it.

He wanted _more._

“God, yes,” John whispered, his breathing slipping out in an unsteady pant. He bent and fastened his mouth on Sherlock's nipple through his shirt, lapping at the peak beneath. The sensation, warm and rough through the fabric, made Sherlock startle, and he dug his nails into John’s back. He began to tug at John's jumper, huffing in impatient frustration until John sat back on Sherlock’s hips and pulled it over his head. The motion stretched the taut muscles of his stomach, exposed hard abdominals and strong pectorals. Sherlock stared, lying flushed and panting on the bed. He ogled John's defined chest and felt his face burn as his cock twitched in his pants.

His eyes dropped, following the faint trail of pale, blond hair leading from John’s navel that disappeared beneath the edge of his jeans.

John tossed the jumper over the edge of the bed and dropped down again. He held himself up on one hand, working at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt with the other. Catching the way Sherlock was staring at him with a mixture of awe and lust, he curved his back, leaving room for his hand on Sherlock's chest while he kissed him slow and open-mouthed. The buttons taken care of, Sherlock lifted his upper body off the bed, shrugging the shirt off before laying back, John following him down to the mattress.

The allure of warm skin was almost too much, and Sherlock's hands hovered uncertainly on either side of John's upper body. He wanted to touch but found himself hesitating, unnerved by his inexperience.

Tilting his head and pressing a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, John whispered, “What do you want?”

Sherlock rolled his head against the pillow, annoyed by his indecision. “Can I touch you?" he asked, tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. "I want to touch you.”

His request pulled a groan from John, who darted forward to press his lips hard to Sherlock's. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke against Sherlock’s mouth, “Yes, Sherlock. Yes, you can touch me. Baby, of course you can touch me, wherever you like.”

Sherlock shivered at the endearment, at hearing John call him _baby._ His fluttering hands settled, fingers brushing John’s sides in a feather-light touch. John hummed, the sound encouraging as he kissed Sherlock again, using his teeth to tug Sherlock's upper lip into his mouth. Sherlock's palms drifted over John’s ribs and upward, moving in along the muscles of his back and shoulders. One hand rose, tentative and searching, nails dancing over the nape of John’s neck and higher until he finally sank his fingers into John’s hair.

It was softer than Sherlock imagined, the strands clinging silken between his knuckles. He ran his fingers over John’s scalp, carding among the cowlicks, making John sigh into his mouth.

Someone knocked on the door. The sound was loud and sudden in the quiet space shared between them. John stiffened and lifted his head, turning to look toward the sound. Breathing raggedly, Sherlock blinked as some of the arousal hazing his thoughts cleared.

A second knock followed the first, this time accompanied by a voice. “Seven minutes is up, boys! It’s time to come out!”

John looked down at Sherlock with his expression shadowed in the dim light of the room. To Sherlock’s surprise, John’s breathing was almost as unsteady as his own, and there was a silent question in his dark gaze.

Staring at him, feeling John’s hard body pressing down onto his, Sherlock knew he didn’t want to stop. He shook his head, and John grinned. He let Sherlock pull him down, using his grip in John’s hair. John kissed him quickly with a firm press of lips and turned his head toward the door.

“Sod off!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth to make sure they heard him.

His words met with a smattering of giggles. Sherlock felt the rough edges of self-consciousness rising within him, and his cheeks burned. But John bent his head and kissed him again, and it faded as quickly as it appeared. The kiss drew out, deepened until they were both panting and breathless, gasping for air when John finally leaned back.

He stared down at Sherlock with something like awe, his eyes aglow with incredulousness.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” His voice shook, and he brushed a sweaty curl off of Sherlock’s forehead with unsteady fingers. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. Just... you’re _bloody beautiful_ , and I’ve wanted you forever. Since the first time I saw you, I swear to god, Sherlock — I couldn’t get you out of my head.” John laughed. He looked embarrassed, suddenly vulnerable. Teeth pressing into his bottom lip, he gazed down at Sherlock with wonder. “Kinda pathetic, huh? Having a crush on someone since the first year of uni and never acting on it?”

Dazed by John’s admission, Sherlock slowly shook his head. “No, it’s not,” he said, struggling to accept John’s words. “It’s not pathetic. I… me, too.” He felt breathless, his lungs aching for air, head spinning. “I wanted you, too,” Sherlock cleared his throat, croaking out his own confession, “for just as long.”

John stared. His eyes were dark and unblinking, the two of them pressed together from calf to chest, stiff and aching against one another. His breath rushing out in a ragged sigh, John said, “Oh.” He blinked, and a small frown creased his forehead. _“Oh.”_ His face slowly cleared, the frown replaced with a slow, amazed smile. “Really?”

His smile was brilliant, and Sherlock fixated on John’s mouth. Giddiness surged through him, sending sparks flaring beneath his skin, making him tingle right down to his fingers and toes.

“Really,” he breathed and grinned at John’s soft, slightly shocked giggle.

“Then, I’m _really_ glad Greg dragged you to this party.”

Sherlock managed a weak nod and tilted his head up to meet John’s kiss, tasting his tongue when it slipped between his lips. He stroked his hands down John’s spine, and John hummed his approval before rolling his hips. The motion dragged the hard line of his cock, trapped in his jeans, over Sherlock’s erection, and a wild tremour rippled through Sherlock’s body.

Eyes widening, his voice awed, Sherlock whispered, _“Oh.”_ Grinning down at him, John repeated the movement. This time, the shift of his hips made Sherlock’s breath catch, made his face blaze. A quiet sound escaped him, something choked and wanting, and he dug his fingers against John’s lower back.

“Yeah?” John nuzzled at the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. His breath emerged in a heavy pant, and his teeth scraped Sherlock’s throat. “Again?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, his nails scrabbling against sweat-dampened skin. “Again,” he said in a rush, tilting his head back. John’s tongue dragged over his Adam’s apple, and Sherlock whimpered. “Yes, do it again.” John obliged, hips rolling in a slow, teasing thrust, and Sherlock huffed out a breathy moan. The sound devolved into wordless noise as John found a steady, intent rhythm with his hips.

They moved against one another, and Sherlock rose to meet John’s downward movements with eager little ruts of his own. The slow pattern dissolved into a messy bump and grind, each driving the other mad until John raised his head from smearing open-mouthed kisses over Sherlock’s neck and looked down at him. His breathing was audible, heavy panting interspersed with desperate moans.

“Can I,” he gasped, hands fumbling clumsily at Sherlock’s trousers, “Sherlock, I want to — can I?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nudged John’s cheek with his nose. He didn’t know what exactly John was asking for, only that he wanted to give it to him. Whatever it was, Sherlock wanted it. He wanted _everything_ , anything John wanted, and he wanted it _now._ “Yes, whatever you want. Yes, please.”

John slipped the clasp on Sherlock’s trousers and opened the placket. With only a brief pause to check Sherlock’s face, he worked a hand inside to cup Sherlock through his pants. Sherlock moaned and jerked up into the touch, almost vibrating as John’s fingers traced the outline of his cock through the thin material.

“More?” John asked. He panted the word into Sherlock’s neck, fingertips lingering on the head of Sherlock’s leaking erection.

“Ah, _John.”_ Sherlock’s hips surged upward, cock twitching as he burned with need. “Yes, more, _yes.”_

John pulled Sherlock’s pants and trousers down with a firm tug, twisting to the side to get them off his legs and onto the floor. He rolled onto his back beside Sherlock, lifting his legs and fighting with his jeans until they and his pants joined Sherlock’s discarded clothing. When he straddled Sherlock’s body again, both of them were naked save for their socks.

Burning with hot want and thundering need, Sherlock grabbed for him. He pulled John down and breathed a whine into his mouth as they came together. The kiss turned sloppy and wet with the gentle pace made wild by the sensation of skin-on-skin contact. Sherlock felt set afire — felt lit up like a lighting display.

Incandescent, burning, blazing.

His hands clutched at John’s bare shoulders, slid over his back and grabbed his hips as John ground down into him. It was intoxicating, a rush of adrenaline, the taste of lightning in Sherlock’s mouth. It made him quake with the ferocity of his own want and need, made him ache for John and nothing but John.

His hands travelling over John’s chest as their hips rose and fell, he stroked the dip of his belly and lower. His fingers brushed the tip of John’s cock, and Sherlock froze. He heard John’s moan and tried to focus, struggling to imprint the moment into his brain.

Fingers petting feather-light over the head, Sherlock catalogued the sensation. The flesh beneath his touch was hot and slick, the head of John’s cock sticky with precum. Sherlock blinked, fascinated. John was groaning against the underside of his jaw, tongue tracing the flow of Sherlock’s carotid artery, and Sherlock was locked in place by awe.

Aside from his own, he’d never touched a cock, and Sherlock smoothed his hand around the length of it, marvelling at how different it felt from his own. He closed his eyes, focusing on the information beneath his hand. The head of John’s cock was rounder than his, the shaft thicker. He was uncircumcised, like Sherlock, the foreskin pulled back by the jut of his erection.

Sherlock stroked his fingertips down the underside, feeling the jut of a vein pulsing under his inquisitive touch. He felt the stiff curl of hair at the base and drifted lower, over the soft skin of John’s bollocks, lightly furred and hanging hot below his erection.

John’s weight lifted off of him, and Sherlock stiffened in surprise. He blinked, opened his eyes and saw John looming over him. Hands planted on the mattress, John’s head hung over Sherlock’s chest. Belatedly, Sherlock realized John was watching — he was watching Sherlock touch him, staring as Sherlock’s long fingers catalogued the feel of him.

Enchanted by John’s focus, Sherlock traced a fingertip along the head. John quaked, his arms shaking on either side of Sherlock. He dragged his finger to the base and delved into the pale, coarse hair at the root before sweeping back up to the tip. John made a desperate sound, the top of his head brushing Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock tilted to the side to regain his view. A clear drop shone at the tip of John’s cock, gleaming along the slit. Swirling a finger slowly through it, Sherlock brought it to his mouth, curious about the taste. Tongue darting out, he lapped at the clear fluid, tasting salt and musk. It was a little bitter, but not unpleasant, and he hummed his approval.

Lifting his head, still anchored above him on shaking arms, John moaned, “Oh, my god.” He stared at Sherlock, pupils huge and dark in the gloom, and shook his head in amazement. “I can’t… did you really just do that?”

Sherlock froze, a rush of dread rising at John’s words. “Not good?” His finger was hooked into his mouth, tongue cleaning the last clinging taste of John from his skin, making his words distorted.

John groaned. “Oh, my god, _no,_ it’s amazing, you’re _amazing._ I can’t believe you, oh my _fucking god.”_ He surged forward and kissed Sherlock’s mouth around the jut of Sherlock’s finger. It was wet and messy, his tongue flicking over Sherlock’s lip before he broke the kiss and darted lower. His lips trailed over Sherlock’s jaw, down the curve of his throat, tongue slipping into the dip between his collar bones. He kissed along Sherlock's chest, slowly lapping at each of his nipples.

The sensation made Sherlock’s toes curl, and he had no warning before John closed his mouth over one peaked point and sucked. The effect was electric, Sherlock’s back arching, chest pressing into John’s fastened lips. He was panting by the time John moved to the other side, showing the same attentiveness until he moved to trail open-mouthed adoration down Sherlock’s stomach.

His tongue dipped into Sherlock’s navel, and Sherlock gasped. His exhale stretched into a breathy moan when John went lower still, lips tracing the crest of his pelvic bone.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock shivered at the feeling of John’s mouth, first licking, then fastening and sucking at the crease of his inner thigh. The skin there was sensitive, and goosebumps rose on Sherlock’s flesh. The prickling sensation of shivers was a sharp contrast to the pressure of John’s sucking mouth and his flicking tongue.

Sherlock opened his mouth to beg for more when John moved inward, and his tongue dragged over the length of Sherlock’s cock.

The reaction was instant. Sherlock’s entire body jerked, his eyes widening, his lips rounding into an ‘O’ of surprise. John glanced up his body and found Sherlock’s eyes. He held his gaze over the jut of Sherlock’s hip and did it again, the flat of his tongue curling to the shape of his shaft and making Sherlock whimper.

Grinning, with his eyes glimmering in the gloom, John ducked his head and took Sherlock into his mouth. Just the tip at first, then more, his tongue sliding along the underside as he hummed around Sherlock’s aching cock.

Hands tangled in the sheets, trembling at the sensation, Sherlock struggled not to buck upward. The feeling was exquisite, all wet heat and slick pressure. The head of his cock dragged over John’s tongue and butted along the soft inside of John’s cheek then the ridged roof of his mouth. His hips rolled instinctively, pushing deeper, John’s hands stroking along his thighs with encouraging little caresses.

Sherlock’s mind went blank, body lighting up with bliss. He imagined what his brain might look like, with his pleasure centres lit up like Christmas lights, cerebral chemicals rushing through his synaptic connections.

Having John’s mouth on him was like nothing he’d experienced before. Every solo experience paled in comparison. He’d never felt such pleasure, and when Sherlock began to gasp and writhe, John reached out and gently took his hands. He gripped one at a time and placed them on his head in silent invitation.

With his cock butting up against the back of John’s mouth, Sherlock locked his fingers in John’s short, sweaty hair and gripped for dear life.

John hollowed his cheeks, sucking at the precum leaking freely from the tip of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock went mad with it. The noises escaping him would have made him cringe in any other situation. But with John humming around him, his lips stretched and pinkened by Sherlock’s erection, they were impossible to contain.

Sherlock’s hips lifted and rolled, pushing gently out and back into John’s mouth. He felt John stroke his thighs, his sides and flank, encouraging the little thrusts. Sherlock managed to find a slow rhythm, fucking into John’s mouth as John bobbed his head. John gradually increased the pace, alternating between suction on the head when Sherlock pulled back and sweeps of his tongue over the underside when he pushed forward.

Head thrown back, fingers clutching at the sheets, Sherlock felt his body tensing, tightening, clenching. Abruptly, John drew back, and Sherlock breathed out a forlorn sound. He trembled, panting as John pressed a light kiss to the head of Sherlock’s cock, gripped him, and twisted his hand root to tip, sending Sherlock spiralling into orgasm.

The tight feeling thrumming through his body released. Bliss washed over Sherlock, his climax sweeping outward from a knot of pressure at the base of his spine. It felt like a sonic boom, the rippling echo of the sound barrier breaking. It was a supernova explosion in his veins that originated somewhere deep in his core and rippled out through his senses. It pulled his limbs inward, toes curling, fingers digging into John’s hair, an almost pained cry escaping from low in his chest. His cum spattered over his own stomach and chest. It shot high enough to mark John’s neck and slide down to his shoulder.

Collapsing into the sheets with tremours shaking through his limbs, Sherlock felt like he was floating. He was outside himself, spiralling in the comedown of his orgasm, and it took precious seconds to return to his body. His awareness returned slowly, unfocused vision clarifying, sounds rushing back. He heard John gasping and panting, making little sounds of need above him, and lifted his head to see John touching himself. His arm was flexing, fist working hard over his erection.

Eyes half-closed, body heavy with his release, Sherlock reached for him. With numb fingers, he tugged at John’s shoulder, drawing him back over top of him. He leaned up to find John’s lips, tasting what desperation sounded like in John’s mouth as they kissed.

John’s hand worked furiously. Fingers wrapping tight around his cock, he chased his orgasm. His brain awash in sheer bliss from the chemicals flooding through his body, Sherlock named them silently in his head and reached between their bodies, fingers brushing the head of John’s cock.

_Oxytocin, norepinephrine, serotonin, vasopressin, prolactin._

John groaned as Sherlock touched him, the pace of his strokes stuttering. Circling John’s hand with his own, Sherlock took over, letting John’s hand slide away from under his. John’s cock twitched, his bollocks drawing up as Sherlock worked him clumsily. It took a moment to find a rhythm, the angle awkward, but Sherlock was nothing if not determined. He smoothed the precum leaking liberally from the slit down over the shaft in an attempt to lubricate the strokes, and John’s legs nearly buckled.

His voice was rough and husky as he whispered, “Oh, god, Sherlock.” John lifted his head, eyelashes fluttering, and stared at Sherlock with eyes that were so dark they looked black. Sherlock tilted forward to kiss him, and John shivered as their lips slotted together. Sherlock stroked him faster, harder. He drew John to the brink and spilled him over, John shivering as he groaned Sherlock’s name and painted Sherlock’s stomach with his release in thick, stuttering pulses.

It seemed to go on for ages, John shaking, his breath sobbing out between his moans. His cum was hot, striking Sherlock’s belly and pooling in his navel. Stunned by the force of John’s climax, Sherlock stared, biting his lip hard in awe.

With one last, violent shiver, John’s arms gave out, and he collapsed with a grunt, pinning Sherlock to the mattress. Freeing his hand from under him, Sherlock stroked gently up John’s back and buried his fingers in the hair at his nape. John breathed a soft, shaky sigh against Sherlock’s throat.

Pressed together chest to chest, Sherlock could feel John’s pulse thundering against his.

As the shudders eased off, John finally lifted his head. He propped himself up on one arm and stared at Sherlock in wonder. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

Sherlock’s heart sank at the words, and an icy panic washed over him. Did he do it wrong? Did John regret it? Oh, god, had Sherlock misread the situation entirely? It _seemed_ like John wanted him… Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Sherlock asked, “Was it… was it not good?” His apprehension made the words sound high and uncertain.

John’s eyes went wide with shock, and he shook his head with vigour, cupping Sherlock’s face in his palm. “Oh, my god, no. No, baby,” he said, still shaking his head, “that was amazing. You’re amazing.” He pressed a warm, contrite kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, lingering there until Sherlock began to soften beneath him. Nuzzling at the flushed, sweaty skin over Sherlock’s temple, John murmured, “You blew my fucking _mind.”_

Stunned, Sherlock dropped his head to the pillow and blinked up at the ceiling. _He_ blew _John’s_ mind? It didn’t make sense. “I… really?”

With their foreheads pressed together, John nodded and stroked damp hair away from Sherlock’s face. “God, yes, Sherlock. Yes, you did. I just can’t believe I got to do that with _you_.” He groaned, rolling their foreheads together with a helpless giggle of amazement. “You’ve no idea how many times I fantasized about this, how I couldn’t stop thinking about being with you like this.” John sighed a soft, blissful sound, and licked a stripe up Sherlock’s sweaty neck. “It’s unreal. You’re _unreal.”_

A tentative smile curled the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “I might have some idea.”

John leaned back and cocked an eyebrow down at him. “Oh?” His eyes narrowed, a sharp, hungry expression stealing over his face. “Are you telling me that you thought about it, too? Thought about me, like this?”

Breathless and emboldened by John’s gleaming eyes, Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Many times.”

John grinned. The expression was wolfish. He looked like he wanted to devour Sherlock, tongue darting out to trace over his lip in a ravenous manner. “Oh, I’m never letting you go,” he vowed, sinking his teeth playfully against Sherlock’s shoulder. “If I could go again, believe me, I would.” Sherlock made a soft, surprised sound that bordered on needy, and John chuckled against his skin. “But I can’t, not yet.” He sounded rueful, dragging his softened cock over the humid inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “Later.”

It sounded like a promise, John’s voice low and dark, and Sherlock shivered. He nodded, and John grinned.

“How about we get dressed.” John pressed a brief kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s lips, stroking his fingertips over Sherlock’s bare chest. “We can rejoin the party, maybe get you something to drink?”

Nodding shakily, Sherlock touched his fingers to John’s cheek. “Okay.”

“Good.” John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, this one long and lingering, before rolling away and off the edge of the bed. He crossed to the desk, bending over to reach something. The moonlight from the window cast silver shadows over his bare arse. Propping himself up on his arms, Sherlock marvelled at the view.

He blinked when John turned back to the bed and grinned, catching Sherlock watching. He winked and approached with a bounce in his step. There was a wad of tissues in his hand, and John murmured, “Let’s get you cleaned up,” as he wiped them over Sherlock’s chest and stomach. He tended to himself as well before tossing the dirtied kleenex into the trash.

They dressed slowly, their efforts repeatedly interrupted by John pulling Sherlock to him for a kiss, to nudge his nose against his jaw, to stroke his hand down Sherlock’s sweat-sticky chest.

When they were finally clothed again, they helped straighten each other up, to little avail.

Sherlock’s face was still flushed, his curls crushed in places and wild in others, and John gave up his attempts to tame them with a laugh. “Well, if everyone doesn’t already know what we were up to, they sure will now.” His own hair was a mess, the short strands in disarray that refused to be corrected.

Sherlock bit his lip and glanced at the door, John’s words inspiring a surge of uncertainty. The thought of everyone at the party looking at him and knowing what they’d been up to filled him with dread. He didn’t regret it — was still buzzing with endorphin bliss — but didn’t relish providing those who harassed him with more fodder. 

Picking up on his discomfort, John stepped closer. He took Sherlock’s face between his hands and stroked his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones in a reassuring gesture.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips over Sherlock’s forehead, “I won’t let anyone bother you.” His nose drifted along Sherlock’s hairline, and Sherlock tilted into him, grateful for the promise. When John pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned back, his grin was sharp. Sherlock shivered at the sight of it as John vowed, “Just let them try it.”

Thinking of how often people teased him for lesser things, Sherlock swallowed hard. “People,” he chose his words with care, desperate for John to understand, “they aren’t always… kind.”

John’s eyes narrowed. His grip tightened on Sherlock’s face, hands firm as they held him in place. “If anyone tries to say something, they’ll have to go through me first.” He straightened and dropped his arms to his sides, his dark eyes hardening.

Sherlock’s breath fled. “You’d do that?”

John blinked and tilted his head in bemusement. “Of course I would, Sherlock.” Searching Sherlock’s face, he frowned and moved closer again. Smoothing a palm down Sherlock’s chest, John reached for his hand, where it fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. He laced their fingers together and looked Sherlock in the eye. “Let me know if I’m being too forward, but I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” John’s gaze sharpened. “I want _you_ , Sherlock. All of you.” His hold tightened on Sherlock’s hand, and his voice grew rough. “Would you… I mean, do you want that?”

His mouth suddenly dry, wondering how they had gone from laughter to this intensity, Sherlock nodded. He did want that, didn’t even have to think about it. The fact that John wanted it, too, was astonishing. It made Sherlock’s chest ache, his heart thundering with the force of his wanting.

Licking his lips, he swallowed. “Yes, John. Yes, I want that.” Sherlock cleared his throat, gripping John’s hand like a lifeline. “I... I want you.”

John’s eyelashes fluttered in a brief blink, and a flush spread slow and beautiful over his face. “Good,” he breathed in a ragged voice, “that’s good. That’s… very good. I’m glad. In that case,” John reeled Sherlock closer and lifted onto his toes to capture and nip at his bottom lip, “you’re mine,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth, low and possessive and fervent, “and God help anyone who says anything to you that they shouldn’t.” The scrape of teeth shifted into a kiss, slow and shockingly gentle compared to John’s hard tone.

Sherlock melted into it, his free hand rising to grip John’s nape and hold him close. He felt John smile, the kiss deepening and drawing out. The slide of their tongues made Sherlock dizzy, his body lighting up beneath John’s touch.

“Oh, god,” John groaned, grabbing his hip in a bruising hold. “If we don’t stop right now, I’m never going to let you leave this room.”

“No one is stopping you,” Sherlock replied, dragging his tongue along John’s bottom lip. He still felt like he had no idea what he was doing, but John’s quiet moans helped guide him where he lacked inexperience.

“I see that.” John kissed him hard, sliding one hand down to grip his arse. “But it’s my party, and it would be rude of me to stay locked in the room all night.”

Sherlock grumbled and wriggled closer. “Who cares about being rude?”

His words earned him a soft laugh, and John shook his head. “Oh, you’re going to be a handful, aren’t you? Later.” His mouth drifted to Sherlock’s lips, and he whispered, “I promise.” John pressed one last kiss to Sherlock’s mouth and leaned back. Sherlock saw that he was grinning. “You ready?”

Sherlock nodded and sighed, feigning annoyance even though he felt dizzy and lightheaded with satisfaction. “Fine. If we must.”

“There’s a lad.” With their fingers still intertwined, John pulled him toward the door. When he opened it, the noise and music that had been dulled by the wood rushed over them.

Towing Sherlock by the hand, John led him down the hall and into the sitting room. To Sherlock’s relief, only a few people reacted to their reappearance. Some grinned, others winked, and, to Sherlock’s shock, someone even clapped him on the back. The unexpected gesture made him stumble, and John pulled him along, unrelenting, guiding him to the kitchen.

Molly and Greg were there, leaning against the counter with drinks in hand. They looked up at their entrance, and one of Greg’s eyebrows rose.

“Sherlock! John!” Molly grinned at them both, a spot of colour rising in each of her cheeks. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, his eyes gleaming as a sly grin crept over his lips, “where’d you disappear to?”

Sherlock felt the blood rush into his face. The urge to turn and disappear into the crowd washed over him, but John tugged him into his side, releasing his hand to wrap a possessive arm around his waist. “Ah, shut up, Greg,” he replied with good-natured annoyance. “And pass me a beer, would you? Sherlock, you want a beer?”

Trying to ignore the wink Greg shot his way, Sherlock pressed into John and nodded. With a grin, John handed him a beer after accepting two from Greg.

Drinks in hand, the four of them stood there in a semi-circle. The sounds of the party washed over them from the other side of the counter, and Greg and John fell into a conversation about their last rugby game, their voices rising in a playful argument.

Sherlock listened politely, most of it going over his head as he sipped at his beer. This one was darker, less like liquid bread, smoother over his tongue. It wasn’t unpleasant, and Sherlock took a larger drink. When he lifted his head, Molly caught his eye and offered a warm smile before flicking her gaze to John and back to Sherlock.

Feeling his blush return, Sherlock swallowed his mouthful and tipped his head in a small nod. Molly’s smile widened, and she mouthed, _good for you_. Sherlock bit his lip and watched as she slipped her hand into Greg’s, who curled their fingers together before turning back to John.

Condensation slipped over the beer can in Sherlock’s hand. He stood in their little group, realizing that, for once, he didn’t feel out of place. With John’s arm around his waist, his hand warm on Sherlock’s side, Sherlock listened to the voices of his friends and smiled.

_fin._


End file.
